All's Fair in Love and War
by Fuchsia Screams
Summary: When the Dark Lord is defeated and Severus Snape is freed, how will producing an heir turn into a life-threatening situation? And how will our favorite bushy-haired know-it-all come into play?
1. I: Prologue

**All's Fair in Love and War**

A/N: For those who are looking for steamy, unadulterated, one-shot smut, you've come to the wrong place. Yes, there _will_ eventually be smut, but this fic DOES have a storyline, and I refuse to believe that Hermione would simply have lain down and let Professor Snape lead her by the nose into sexual misadventure.

ALSO—this is a re-write (by my original story of the same name). I read it again and decided that it was all crap and very outdated, and didn't comply with my view of the characters now that I'm a few years older. SO. Incidentally, both the re-write and the original were in response to a challenge in which Severus gets Hermione pregnant, they (eventually) fall in love and, after many hardships and solution, live happy ever after, etc., etc. So, that's what this is.

* * *

**I. Prologue**

Although the air was hot and stuffy, the atmosphere within the halls of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry couldn't have been more cheerful. With two days left until the end of term and the successful graduation of another year of students poised to burst enthusiastically into the world of magic, the mood was unmistakably one of general contentment and optimism. In their last class of the day, lazy students were strewn haphazardly in their seats, some sprawled, sluggish and inattentive, across their desks. Some were chatting animatedly with their closest neighbors, while still others stared blankly in the general direction of the front of the classroom; but only one seemed to be paying any attention, and that one was Hermione Granger.

Hermione sat bolt-upright in her seat, prone and stuff, eyes trained on the dungeon floor. Voices buzzed all around her but for all her usual attentiveness, she couldn't hear a word that was being said. Her body responded with a heart throb when she daringly allowed her eyes to dart over some distant part of the classroom, then nervously glanced over at the person closest to her, who happened to be Ron. Hermione sighed inwardly, relieved – he was snoozing peacefully with his forehead resting on the table. _Good. He hadn't seen_. Ron Weasley was downright doglike in the way he pursued rumors about her love life, and this was certainly one bone she didn't want him digging up.

"Miss Granger," called a remarkably controlled voice. The witch started, dragged reluctantly out of her reverie by one of the only people on Earth who could affect her—

"Yes, Professor Snape?" she murmured, wondering grimly how her usual fiery strength of character had drained from her so quickly. He swooped across the classroom to where she was seated, his black robe billowing as though it had been charmed to do so, and stood over her wordlessly. His gaze was so intense at times, whether he be looking at her, yelling at attention-deficit and accident-prone students, or brewing a potion, that she couldn't help but fantasize. And his voice – it was a wonder that she had managed to pass her Potions final at all, let alone managing to scrape by with a sound 'Exceeds Expectations' (by no means an easy feat, as she had not only to contend with her blossoming crush on her Potions professor, but also had to find a way to keep this information from Harry and Ron).

Hermione's fixation with her Potions professor had been haunting her thoughts for the better part of her seventh year. She wasn't sure exactly why, but she thought it may have something to do with her newly awakening and ill-received sexual desires. Hermione had always felt a little out of touch with her sexuality – as they had grown together, sharing classes, experiences and the pangs of adolescence, her fellow Gryffindors began to outstrip her when it came to matters of sexual maturity. She listened as, one by one, rumors of sexual conquests amongst her peers became common-place gossip (choosing to ignore stories of Harry and Ron), and studied even harder for it. Even Ginny Weasley, who was a year her junior, had lost her virginity, all before Hermione had even discovered that she could pleasure herself without a partner (the thought of which mortified her).

"There's nothing wrong with it, really," Ginny said bluntly one evening just before the start of term, as the two watched the Weasley boys and Harry playing Quidditch through her bedroom window. "Sex doesn't have to be personal unless you want it to be. Just choose a guy and snog him and before long you'll be flat on your back with your legs in the air. Why?" she'd added coolly, trying to pass off her tone as disinterested. "Do you like someone, 'Mione?"

"No," she'd answered, and it was truthful at the time: the boys in her year were immature and simple-minded. What appealed to her was intelligence, logic, maturity, and it was in this area that they sorely lacked. They had only one thing on their minds, and it wasn't books, classes, or having intellectual conversations on the effects of the Pepper-up potion in children.

And that was what led to her infatuation with Severus Snape.

While other students paid just enough attention in Potions to be classified as conscious, Hermione listened attentively, hanging on to every word ushered from his lips and carving them into her memory. It became more and more obvious to her that Professor Snape was a wizard who embodied all the qualities she found attractive in a mate: intelligence, logic, shrewdness and (after discovering his roll in the Order of the Phoenix and the downfall of Lord Voldemort), integrity. She began to notice other things about him, too – the deep, silky, often-sarcasm timbre of his voice; the dark intensity with which he examined potions and prey alike; the way in which he commanded the attention of a room simply by walking through the door. He was the alpha male in his classroom and there was no other option.

Slowly but surely, Professor Severus Snape began to both dominate Hermione's thoughts and eradicate the negative way she had seen him since she was eleven years old, just as surely as he dominated his classroom, his art. Feelings of respect and admiration merged with fantasies of him driving into her over and over, completely and wholly obliterating whatever virginal qualities she had left inside her. Through her crush on the professor, she began to see herself not as the clean and immaculate vestal virgin that represented her adolescence, but as a sexually mature young woman who was just beginning to come into her own sense of self. Many of her evenings were spent in the privacy of her Head Girl chambers, moaning and writhing as fantasies of her Potions professor plagued her sleeping and waking dreams ("Well, it's not like I can help it when I sleep!" she huffed to a giggling Ginny). His love wasn't gentle, and that's the way she preferred it. She bled and screamed and begged—

"Just as I expect the rest of these dunderheads to afford me no thought on their last day of class whatsoever," he said sharply, "I expect you to be doing no less than recording your final lesson. And though I don't wish to bore you," he added with a sneer, "my lectures are substantially more important than whatever is going on in your head. So straighten up and pay attention, Miss Granger, and ten points from Gryffindor." He turned and strode back to the head of the class, where a piece of chalk was racing hurriedly across the blackboard as though it were attempting to cram as much last-minute information into their heads as possible. Slightly shaken, she ignored the jeers and quiet cat-calls issuing from the Slytherin side of the room, but couldn't ignore the cutting glares from her fellow Gryffindors for having points taken so late in the running towards the House Cup. That hadn't been so bad, although she couldn't deny the effect that his verbal abuse had had on her knickers. She had to find a way to end this.

_There's only one way to do that_, she thought grimly as the bell rang and she Scourgified her cauldron clean, _although the chances of that happening are about as slim as Malfoy being gay_.

* * *

A/N: Tell me what I'm missing. I feel like there's something I'm not describing enough – surroundings, emotions… or maybe that's just another symptom of being a writer.


	2. Prologue: Part Two

**Prologue – Part Two**

Hermione picked moodily at her scrambled eggs the following afternoon, thoroughly irritated at the droves of chattering Gryffindors (who were purposely ignoring her). They had learned to give her a wide berth when she was in a foul mood, which she seemed to be in more and more often these days. None of them wanted to risk being told off or docked points by a grumpy Head Girl that was in their own house, especially not for something like _"breathing too loudly"_, as had been the last person Hermione told off.

"Did you hear what Zabini and Malfoy did _right_ in the Slytherin common room last night?" they whispered excitedly from all directions. "I heard there was a party and some Firewhiskey, and…"

Hermione sighed inwardly, miserable, before risking a brief, darting peek at the head table, where Professor Snape and the other teachers were seated. He looked rather preoccupied with his lunch, ravishing a turkey sandwich like a fine woman, and he didn't notice her furtive glances. Hermione's breathing quickened, but it didn't seem as though anyone had noticed – from the corner of her eye she could see Ron and Harry devouring their lunches like it was the last thing they would ever eat, oblivious to her thoughts. She looked back at him slowly, surreptitiously. He looked rather uncomfortable seated between Professor McGonagall and Hagrid, who waved heartily when he saw her looking. She waved back tentatively and averted her glance back to her lunch, but after a few minutes, her eyes deftly slid back to the Potion's masters' seat once more.

She wanted to memorize his face. She wanted to remember everything about him, because she would probably never see him again.

"Hey, Hermione," said Harry suddenly. She jumped guiltily at the sudden intrusion into her personal space, positive that he must, surely, have known what she was thinking. Passing it off as though her jump had been because she'd dropped food on herself, she pretended to brush food off her lap, turning to Harry with a weak smile. "Yes?"

"A bunch of us are going to Hogsmeade this afternoon. Wanna come?" he offered, shoveling a hefty spoonful of pudding into his mouth.

Hermione's eyes flicked over to the Potions master imperceptibly before she shook her head and began to absent-mindedly pick at her food. "No… no, I don't think so, Harry, sorry. I can't."

Harry stopped eating and looked at her seriously. Hermione had been unusually subdued lately and, truthfully, he didn't understand the habit of women brooding inwardly over whatever was bothering them – he, as a male, was almost always straightforward when it came to his own problems. Believing that time would heal whatever she was going through, he had kept silent, hoping that she would come to him so that he didn't have to go out on a limb to ask her what was wrong. But that strategy didn't seem to be working, and it was time to intervene.

"Er—so—Hermione," he began awkwardly, then paused; he genuinely didn't know how to proceed. _Girls_. "You've—er—been really moody lately. Whatever it is—"_–would you cut it out already?—_"—You can tell me about it, you know."

Hermione pursed her lips, eyes brimming with unshed tears. She was so tempted to tell him. Harry would understand; unlike Ron (who she believed to be almost completely devoid of emotion), Harry would at least listen to what she had to say, though she knew that he would vehemently disagree with the subject of her affection. She swiped away the tears and shook her head, turning back towards her meal with a finality that almost made Harry drop the subject. "I can't, Harry, I'm sorry… I just can't." She cast him an apologetic glance. "I just can't."

Harry watched her for a moment, his jaw working thoughtfully. Then he nodded and patted her shoulder awkwardly, a gesture he was sure that meant, in girl language, that he was attempting to be supportive. "I won't press it. You can tell me when you're ready." He rose from his seat, understanding, at least, the feeling that some things were too personal to share.

"Thank you, Harry," she whispered softly. She bade he and Ron a good time in Hogsmeade, then turned back to the table. As soon as they rounded the corner and disappeared, from sight, Hermione's eyes slid back to the head table.

Professor Snape was gone.

But she knew where to find him.

-----x-----

Everywhere outside of Hogwarts' dungeons, it was nearly warm enough by mid-afternoon to make a dragon molt its scales – perfect Hogsmeade conditions. Most of the Slytherins and a few hopeful students from rivaling houses had retreated to the darkest and gloomiest parts of the archaic castle, seeking refuge from the heat wave that had taken the rest of the school hostage. All but one of the dungeon-goers basked in the cool, almost cold, bowels of Hogwarts, but one amongst them sat in front of his fireplace sipping a Firewhiskey, deep in thought. His feet were propped up on the edge of the hearth and he started into the flames absently, his dark, liquid eyes clouded with some all-consuming thought. He jumped and immediately began to scowl when a brisk, jaunty knock on his office door dragged him back to reality. He took his time getting up and making his way to the door.

"Professor Snape," murmured Hermione meekly as he opened the door and gazed down at her, the stone wall dividing his emotions from his facial expressions apparently unfazed. Her feet shuffled nervously and she determinedly returned his stare with a great deal of inner strength, though with every second that passed in this contest of wills her resolve weakened. His eyes were blank; his face, a mask. She blinked. He won.

Apparently satisfied with this victory, he growled audibly, annoyance etched in every contour lining his face. "What is it, Miss Granger?" he asked, his voice straining with poorly-concealed irritation. "What could be so _terribly_ important that you had to come and bother me in my private chambers on your last day of school?"

"Sir…" Hermione's voice faltered and she gazed down at the ashen stone floor. Cold and unyielding, just like him. Her heart was pounding and she felt mildly sick. _I have to do it_, she thought. _I have to_.

"Well?" he barked impatiently.

"Professor, I think I'm in love with you," she gushed quickly.

Hermione flinched visibly, waiting for him to yell at her, tell her she was a fool, a whore, or maybe even hex her. But he didn't. In fact, he didn't say anything at all. She stood there, silenced by humiliation, for a few heavy moments before risking a tentative glance up at him. He was staring at her blankly as though he had never seen her before, let alone heard what she just said. _Did_ he hear what she just said?

"Professor?" she whispered. "Professor, I said—"

"I heard what you said."

"Oh." A faint pink blush began to blossom on Hermione's cheeks as she waited for a reply. She hadn't expected this. She had spent hours planning what to do if she was rejected, and much longer dreaming of what she'd do if he accepted her. But now… now, she had no idea what he was thinking, let alone how he felt towards her. Surely after this long he'd have given her _something_ to work with if he weren't considering what she was saying…

Panic began to flare in her heart. What if he _didn't_ accept her? Hermione drew a deep, shuddering breath, trying to stem the flow of her rapidly increasing anxiety. As an excellent student (who had graduated first in her year), she had never had to deal with any sort of major failure. Her 'try-hard-and-succeed' work ethic and personal motto had never proven faulty in the way of academic achievements. As the silence of his indecisiveness rang in her ears louder than the rhythmic pounding of her heart, realization dawned on her like a slap in the face: not everything she studied in books could be applied to real life.

Severus gazed down at the girl in front of him in shock, and he struggled to keep his expression neutral; if it weren't for his current situation, he might have found her obvious discomfort amusing. His shoulders slumped as though he were carrying something heavy on his back and he sighed audibly, normally a tactic he used to express his annoyance. She really had grown quite a lot since she had come to the school as a bushy-haired, buck-toothed, stuck-up eleven-year-old several years before. She was the age of consent, too… but she was also a former student, and that was a line he was not prepared to cross. Severus Snape, a Slytherin through and through, did almost nothing that did not result in a personal reward; and as he contemplated the pros and cons of deflowering his seventeen-year-old student, his conscience was weighing heavily on the side of rejecting her. No, a night of sexual bliss – not even one in which he got to spend several pleasurable hours coaxing the innocence from a virgin and replacing it with his own brand of corruption – was not worth the possible detrimental effect it could have on his career if anyone ever found out.

_But she's willing_.

He eyed her in consideration as the notion slithered deviously into his mind. Yes… she was willing. _Ready and willing_, he mused as Hermione shifted uncomfortably under his penetrating gaze. He could smell the sweet, musky ambrosia of her arousal as it saturated the air. And if he willed it, he could have her now.

Hermione lowered her head until her chin nearly touched her chest. She couldn't bear to look at him. Something in his eyes flickered when he looked at her, considering her. Whatever it was, it had caused a reaction in her. A very strong reaction.

"Miss Granger…" he began, in a tone that was neither favorable nor hostile.

"Professor," she murmured softly, her eyes pleading. "Please. I… you don't have to… we don't have to be together. I don't need a relationship," she continued, her Gryffindor boldness picking up momentum with every second that she continued to talk. "You don't have to stay with me. I'm just asking for one time. Just be with me… one time."

Severus considered her silently. He felt nothing for the girl – in fact, he loathed being in contact with anyone who was directly, or even indirectly, connected to Potter – but he couldn't deny that she was attractive as a woman, even if he disliked her a person (_Although_, he reminded himself, _that didn't necessarily mean he couldn't have_ other _relations with her_). It was beginning to become hard to resist the desperate, innocent pleas of an attractive young woman who was practically throwing herself at his sexual mercy. But it wasn't right (though this was the weakest of his cons), and it could affect his lifestyle – something he was not willing to sacrifice, especially not to do anyone a favor.

"I am not a man of passion," he began bluntly. "Years of servitude under the Dark Lord has made me a distant man. It is not in my nature to love, or even grant affection. You need to realize this. I am a selfish man, Miss Granger," he stated simply. He didn't want to spare her the truth. "Everything I do is a means to my own end. Everything."

"I don't care!" she cried, forgetting her embarrassment, her shyness. Tears of anguish welled over and streamed down her cheeks, unhindered. "I don't need a connection. I just want you!"

In one swift motion, Severus clutched her shoulders in his strong, nimble hands, slamming her against the dungeon wall roughly, inconsiderate of her comfort. She gasped as he pressed up against her, the hearty ache somewhere around her belly flaring up with an intensity she'd never experienced; his dangerously flashing eyes meant as a warning similar to the rattling of a snake's tail did nothing to deter it.

"You have graduated today," he growled, restraining his temper, "but I am and always will be your superior, and as such you will treat me with respect." The dark wizard began to back away from her, his muscles tense. Truthfully, he had not been angry with her – he had been shocked and surprised that she was willing to lose her virginity to a man who admittedly held no emotion towards her, nor, in truth, had ever treated her with anything less than contempt.

"I do not require a consort, Miss Granger," he continued unabashedly. "I do not have room in my life or in my heart for a permanent lover. When I need relief, I can just as easily pay for it, without the hassle of emotional attachment. I can never be what you want me to be."

A prolonged silence ensued as they stood there, face to face, adversaries with an extensive understanding of one another. Severus' face was grave and emotionless, almost as if he had just finished giving a particularly boring lecture rather than breaking his young students' heart. Hermione's mouth quivered as she stood, speechless, tears streaking a path down her face.

Someone's loud, intrusive voice boomed through the stone corridors. Severus' eyes softened for a moment, his eyes taking an inventory of her body before turning away, refusing to afford her a second glance. He wouldn't. He couldn't. He wasn't sure he would be able to reject her again if she spoke, and he couldn't tell if he'd bought his own argument.

He wasn't sure he wanted to.

"The trains are boarding," he said firmly, his gaze focused on some apparently significant detail on the floor. "You had better go to your friends. Good luck, Miss Granger," he added coolly before striding back into his room and slamming his door shut.

Hermione stifled a sharp cry before she turned and ran up the dungeon corridor, promising herself that she would never look back. But as she reached the end of the tunnel, she couldn't help taking one final glance at the door of the only man she would ever love.


	3. II: A Tempting Offer

**II. A Tempting Offer**

Hermione Granger was twenty years old, passionate, intelligent, respected, had recently graduated with one of the highest NEWT scores in history, considered one of the brightest witches of her times – and was also about to be unemployed.

She sighed in an exaggerated tone, skimming through the classified adds of the _Daily Prophet_ once again for any job offers that looked appealing. But the truth was, she had never felt completely at home anywhere once she had left Hogwarts. Harry was the one who, it seemed, had the greatest claim to kinship with the school; but those ancient, enchanted walls held within them all her memories, her greatest achievements, her deepest secrets and her highest aspirations. No one appreciated Hogwarts in quite the same way as Hermione Granger.

Which was why, the young witch was sure, she was never completely devoted to her work. True, she was highly sought after post-graduation, but Hermione preferred to fly under the radar, taking small jobs with meager pay. The talented witch had trouble committing herself to any one task or job for more than a few months at a time, and her work suffered as a result of her restlessness. Hogwarts was her past, and it was trying to make damn sure it would be part of her future, too.

Hermione rose from her desk and strode towards the window, glancing outside blankly. It was only eight o'clock, but already the streets just outside of the Leaky Cauldron were bustling with Muggles and magical folk alike. Here and there cloaked wizards could be seen, eliciting odd stares from the Muggles who didn't notice them abruptly disappear in the next instant. The wizard had either Apparated or entered the Leaky Cauldron, a small, dingy pub that served as the doorway between Muggle London and Diagon Alley. To Hermione, the Leaky Cauldron was not only her job choice, but her home and her only remaining connection to the wizarding world – for now.

Pressed for time, Hermione chose a modest, though flattering, champagne-colored dress as her daily garment. Being physically attractive and keeping up on grooming habits were an important part of working with customers – especially in the Leaky Cauldron, a seedy little bar and inn that attracted magical creatures and kin from all across the world. Hermione had learned to worm her way out of less than favorable situations by flaunting her charm, something that, as a late bloomer, she hadn't begun to develop until well into adulthood, a trait that she had consciously begun to hone (now that she was aware of it).

"Miss Granger!" A sharp bark echoed up the stairwell to Hermione's living quarters. "Miss Granger, you had better be awake!"

Hermione blanched, diving into the washroom to avoid persecution from the bar's owner and employer, Tom.

"Ridiculous," she murmured, kicking her clothing into an unceremonious pile in the corner as she disrobed. Deeply irritated, she twisted the shower faucet, checking the temperature. She had just climbed into the shower when—

"MISS GRANGER!"

Hermione squealed as she scrambled to wrap the opaque shower curtain around her exposed body frantically. The disembodied head of her employer, Tom, had suddenly appeared from thin air, wearing an impatient, albeit amused, expression on his face.

"You're late!" it declared sharply. "I expect you – fully robed – in the lobby in ten minutes' time!" Apparently satisfied with this announcement, Tom's head disappeared with a small _pop_.

Shaken, though annoyed more than anything, Hermione finished her shower cautiously (and a little suspiciously). She dressed quickly, stealing furtive glances over her shoulder every few minutes as though to assure herself that no one was watching. Muttering to herself darkly, she warded her door against unwanted intrusion and headed downstairs.

"Ah, Miss Granger, I see you've decided to join us," commented Tom slyly, her expression belaying smugness.

"I might have been down sooner if I hadn't needed to keep looking over my shoulder for floating heads," she replied hotly.

"Fair enough," he chuckled, shooting her a sideways glance. Tom, though tattered and seedy, was a fair man, and Hermione a respectable woman – but lately, he had noticed her becoming rather edgy, as if she were nervous, or agitated. It didn't bother him when she occasionally zoned out or even when she snapped at customers, but he made it his business when it cut into her work performance. He was worried about his bright young employee, though it pained him to admit that she could do better than the run-down, ramshackle bar called the Leaky Cauldron. Having more or less watched her grow up, he was privy to the changes in her year by year as she passed through with a friendly, timid demeanor on her way to Diagon Alley.

_And grown up she certainly had_, he thought lewdly to himself. That untamable nest of bushy hair had compensated for its childhood incorrigibility by rectifying itself into a set of loose, chestnut-colored ringlets that framed her face and reflected the light like a glowing halo. Her eyes were nearly the same color, although when a shaft of sunlight fell across her face and lit up her eyes, Tom imagined they could draw a close comparison to honey.

Hermione caught is eye and offered an apologetic smile before gathering her clipboard and heading over to serve a table of eager, early-morning wizards. He watched her go, his eyes lasciviously tracing the shapely curve of her hip as she cocked it to the side, writing furiously as she took their orders.

Of course, Tom was a gentleman (mostly), but what attracted him to Hermione the most was her body. She was the type of girl over whom men would hex each other just to get a piece. She was tiny but shaped like a woman with small, perky breasts and a belly as tight as a snare drum. What impressed Tom the most was that she didn't seem to know how positively bewitching she was, and if she did, she was certainly modest about it. Hermione was a true poster child for beauty.

"The witch in the corner with the purple balaclava wants to know what her tab is," said Hermione, breaking Tom from his libidinous thoughts. He stared at her, almost shocked, and she grinned at him nervously, unsure.

"Something wrong?"

"Er… no, Hermione, no. You're doing well. Tell her that her drink is two sickles." He released a deep breath when she turned away to tend to the customers. He hoped that she didn't yet know how to recognize that telltale gleam in a man's eye.

-----x-----

Hermione worked ceaselessly until late afternoon, and only then, after eight straight hours of work, was Tom able to talk her into taking a short break. The pub's peak business hours were coming soon and he needed Hermione to be in top form; therefore, at Tom's persistent goading, Hermione went upstairs to freshen up and get a bit of reading in before returning downstairs. She was dismayed to find that the Leaky Cauldron had become several times busier in the few spare moments she had snatched to herself. Heaving a dramatic sigh that reflected her consternation, Hermione trudged across the room to begin her shift.

"Excuse me, Miss. Could I take an order, please?" requested an oddly familiar voice.

Hermione turned to address the wizard and gaped in silence, her mouth hanging open, when she realized whose voice she was hearing.

"Professor Dumbledore!" she gasped, dashing over to the much older wizard, her clipboard promptly forgotten. Here sat the man to which she – and the wizarding world – owed everything, for not only had he saved her life, as well as the lives of her two best friends, but he had also been a key factor in the downfall of Voldemort. Where others had doubted the word of Harry Potter and his friends, Dumbledore alone had been the voice of reason, the only solid, unwavering supporter that Harry had ever known (she had, of course, her face red with shame, vetoed Harry's opinions in favor of logic many times before). Hermione didn't doubt that there were more times still that he had been offered the position of Minister for Magic, apart from the three that the wizarding world was aware of. But like her, like Harry – and like Voldemort, she realized bitterly – her place was at Hogwarts. They had more in common than most people could ever imagine.

"Ah, Miss Granger," he said genially, giving every indication that their meeting tonight was a result of luck and chance, "what a pleasant surprise."

"I, uh, wasn't expecting to see you here!" she exclaimed nervously, tugging on her dress' hem self-consciously. "Hogwarts business?

He chuckled. "It is, Miss Granger, it is. But why not order a nice, cold pint of Firewhiskey and chat with a good friend before getting down to business?" He peered at her mysteriously over the rim of his glasses, and she deciphered this to mean that he was making an order.

"Of course, Professor—erm, a Firewhiskey?" she added shyly, tugging a quill and a spare notebook from her apron; she, after all, had not had nearly as much one-on-one contact with Dumbledore as Harry had, and was feeling justifiably sheepish.

Dumbledore held up his hand, halting her in mid-sentence. "No need, Miss Granger. In fact, it was you with whom I came to speak, and it wouldn't do at all to have you running off to serve me drinks while I was attempting to proposition you." He gazed at her thoughtfully, and she wondered vaguely what sort of a proposition he was preparing to make her. "I would like you to consider returning to Hogwarts to work for me."

Hermione reeled internally, stunned into silence. The shock didn't last long, however; it was quickly replaced with a rapidly ballooning feeling of elation, and her heart leapt at the idea of coming back to Hogwarts. Had the librarian, Madam Pince, retired? Had yet another teacher succumbed to the curse laid upon the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts? But Hermione knew, knew with every fiber of her being, that she would accept no matter what the position was.

Dumbledore cocked an eyebrow, waiting patiently, and Hermione remembered that he was a highly accomplished Legilimens; he was probably reading her thoughts as she stood there, gaping, silent. He offered a small, all-knowing chuckle. "Of course, there are the small matters of transportation and salary, but I am confident that you will find the rooming to be most satisfactory—"

"I'll do it!" she gushed before he could finish speaking, radiating happiness, beaming as she hadn't since receiving her NEWT scores the summer after graduating. Wasn't this what she had been dreaming of since?

"Excellent," he exclaimed, rising from the table, his business apparently concluded with favorable results. "Incidentally," he added as an after-note, in an unconvincingly casual tone, "The position to be filled is that of apprentice Potions mistress to Severus Snape."


	4. There's No Place Like Home

**There's No Place Like Home**

Hermione continued to live and work at the Leaky Cauldron for the few weeks preceding the beginning of term. She existed in an almost dreamlike state, enrapturing everyone she met and floating around as though she had been dosed with a particularly potent sample of Cheering Potion. Hermione politely declined the raise that Tom offered her to stay in lieu of the rapid change in her quality of work.

The day before she was scheduled to board the Hogwarts Express from platform 9 ¾, Hermione took a daytime trip to Diagon Alley. The young witch spent a generous proportion of her savings on potion ingredients from the Slug and Jiggers Apothecary, as well as multicolored ink, super-resilient, eagle-feather quills, a large stack of parchment, an impressive pewter cauldron and, of course, enough books to fill a small library. She had also kipped into the Magical Menagerie where, thinking guilty of what Ron's reaction would be, she shelled out a small amount of money (thirteen Sickles) on a new pet to replace Crookshanks, a rat she called Nerva. Satisfied, she returned to the Leaky Cauldron and happily went about the duties of her final day (Tom, dismayed to find himself losing such an asset, put her to work twice as hard).

But as she lay in her bed that last night, magnetically attracted to the ghostly silhouette of the full moon pressing against her curtain, a knot of anxiety began to tighten in her belly. _What's wrong with me?_, she thought. _I have all my equipment, my books. I've always excelled at whatever I've done. Hogwarts is like a second home to me. Why do I feel so nervous?_ But the answer, unable to resist the draw of the question, came to her mind unbidden.

Severus Snape.

Hermione hadn't seen the Potions master since the day she'd graduated from Hogwarts, just over two years ago. For months following her rejection she was reclusive and antisocial, locking herself in her room and burying herself in her studies to avoid pining over the Dark wizard. It was as if she'd been slapped by the Dark Lord himself when she looked around herself one day, at the world that had been passing her by as she mourned her unrequited love. Everyone had a career, a family, a life. All of her closest friends, who had long since given up on her, had made the best of their years at Hogwarts and had subsequently become invaluable to the wizarding society. She was the witch who had had the highest expectations attached to her name, and it was she who had become nothing. She was a disgrace. And it was all his fault.

Unwilling to allow the memory of a man she had once loved to continue dominating her life, Hermione pushed the Potions master from all conscious thought and emerged into the world, a butterfly breaking forth from its cocoon. But no matter how hard she tried, she could never fully commit herself to the task at hand; she had never failed at anything she had attempted before, and rejection hit her hard, stealing her confidence. For the next year and a half, the most sought-after witch of her time worked a string of low-income jobs, making barely enough to sustain her lifestyle.

_But I don't love him anymore_.

Her stomach clenched tightly as the thought drifted into her mind. Of course she didn't love him anymore. It had been two years, and she had no room in her heart for the man who had no room in his bed. It was he, after all, who's brought this upon her, and she refused to spare him even a single thought. He had been buried deep into her psyche long ago, too deeply to ever emerge.

But how would she explain her longing to return to Hogwarts? Why she had accepted no lovers, never had a boyfriend… remained a virgin? Truthfully, Hermione didn't know how the Professor would react to her, nor how she would react to him. There was one thing she was certain of, however: she would not, under any circumstances, fall for him again.

i_He had his chance_/i, Hermione assured herself angrily, whipping her covers off. _If he wanted me, he should have taken me when I was willing_.

Satisfied with the winning argument of her internal monologue, Hermione turned her back to the window, trying to forget the sight of the moon peeking through her curtains. There weren't any windows in the dungeons, after all.

-----x-----

The following day, Hermione boarded the Hogwarts Express from platform 9 ¾. Most of the teachers had already arrived, but Dumbledore had permitted Hermione to arrange her affairs before beginning her post. Later that afternoon, she boarded the train after having bid Tom a tearful farewell. He watched as she packed her trunks into the Muggle taxi, grinning inwardly, hesitant though he was to let her go. But he knew that Hogwarts could use someone like Hermione Granger a lot more than he and the Leaky Cauldron could.

The journey there was hardly eventful, with the exception of a few minor disturbances. To Hermione's delight, both Professors Sprout and Flitwick had also opted to ride the scarlet steam engine to the school, though they didn't get much time to catch up before the students began to cause trouble. Somehow, a group of fourth-years had managed to charm their Chocolate Frogs into life (a feat for which Professor Flitwick was proud), who kept rallying together in an attempt to kidnap the rest of the Chocolate Frogs from the trolley cart.

When they arrived at Hogwarts a little after twilight, Hermione wanted to take her trunks straight to her room and set up, but an eager house-elf insisted that she attend the beginning of term feast instead. Hermione nearly burst into tears when she saw the tiny creature struggling manually to drag the suitcase down the stone landing. She cast a quick floating charm on them before skipping off to dinner.

Dinner wasn't much different from the usual feast, with the exception that the Sorting Hat had stopped predicting the school's demise in the two years since she had heard its song. She did, however, take an appreciative note of the height difference. She was so accustomed to sitting at the table with her fellow Gryffindors, chatting contentedly about timetables and Quidditch, that it came as quite a shock to be sitting here among her professors—no, colleagues, she had to remind herself. The mysterious absence of the Potions master made the adjustment a far smoother one that she had imagined.

After Dumbledore had turned the yawning and contented students in for the evening for a few well-chosen words, Hermione wished the other professors a friendly 'good night' before heading down to her own room, which was conspicuously – no, logically – located in the dungeons. She was both pleased and a little distressed to see that all of her things had been put away for her, and Nerva gazed perceptively at her through the bars of his cage.

Hermione circled the room slowly, the stone walls sliding beneath her fingertips as she checked them for texture, pausing every few steps to listen for signs of a draft. Her new bedroom was sumptuously furnished, the deep, cherry hue of the wooden desk, chairs, bookshelves and bed frame offsetting the scarlet and gold theme aesthetically. A fire crackled merrily in between the two bookshelves, dividing the room into strips of tawny light and deepest shadow. After she had paced around the entire room twice, she noticed a wooden door, wedged between the foot of her bed and a bookshelf on the opposite wall. Deftly, she wedged in between and was a bit surprised to find that this second room was, in fact, a laboratory.

Bookshelves lined one entire side of the room and ingredients, labeled neatly on a frail-looking metal shelf, the other. Her cauldron had been placed in the middle of a small table in the center of the room, which was surrounded on all sides by a bench. There were four working counters – one on each side of the table upon which the cauldron was situated – forming a large, wooden square around the center table and the benches, separating the shelves from the main working area. Hermione shivered, rubbing her hands up and down her arms for warmth. The rumors were true – the dungeons really _were_ drafty.

The witch had turned and was about to leave when she spied a second door, opposite from the one that led to her room. Curious, and deciding that it would be prudent to examine the entire work area beforehand, she pushed it open and stuck her head around the door.

_Oh, my God_.

There, clad in nothing but a pair of silken black boxers, stood her former Potions professor. He didn't seem to notice her as she watched him, transfixed and unable to move, cleaning and organizing stacks of parchment and bundles of quills in preparation of the beginning of term. Hermione watched his chest rise and fall with each breath, his muscled abdomen tightening as he paused to contemplate the extent to which he precious lab would be destroyed this year. Her eyes remained locked on his chest, unable to tear them away, even as her panic rose with the realization that every lingering second increased her chances of being caught. Though he wasn't buff or powerfully built by anyone's definition, there was a certain wiry, lean look to him that indicated good physical health. Hermione's eyes were drawn, like the polar ends of a magnet, to the telltale 'V' that carved its way to that sacred place below.

In that vulnerable moment he looked up and saw her standing there, her face violently red and looking vaguely as though she might faint from embarrassment. His dark eyes belayed shock and bewilderment to find a former student of his, let alone _this_ former student, spying on him in his private chambers as he stood there, speechless, prone, nearly naked. He strode towards her after a few moments spent in a silence fraught with awkwardness, staring down at her from an imposing height.

"Er—Professor—" she stammered.

"I expect that you have a perfectly plausible explanation for breaking into my private quarters after hours, do you?" he snarled, seeming to lose himself.

Hermione flushed indignantly, her excuses quite forgotten. "I'm not a student here anymore, Professor Snape! I—I was just coming to introduce myself—"

"I believe I have already had the misfortune of being grave with the knowledge of your existence," he responded tonelessly. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"

Without waiting for a response, he slammed the door slut and Hermione could hear him placing wards on the room to keep her from disturbing him again. Enraged, she stomped back to her own room and slammed the door behind her – hard.

She stood there for a moment, silent, her heart racing in her chest as anger stacked up inside of her – at the Dark Lord, at Severus, at the circumstances his rejection had left her in and the way fate was toying with her like a puppet. The witch let out a small shriek of indignation before climbing into her four-poster bed, too angry even to change into her pajamas.

_There's no place like home._


End file.
